


golden boy

by madwithmissing



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pining, Pre-Relationship, and baz is observing, at watford, baz is sad, it's the beginning of the year, this is quick, very much a character study, very much inner thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madwithmissing/pseuds/madwithmissing
Summary: He looks so different.I wonder how long it will be until I start to recognize him again.orit's the beginning of the year and baz is watching simon become himself.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 55





	golden boy

**Author's Note:**

> this was just a quick thing i had sitting around for a while and i just wanted to post something so. sorry it has zero substance i just like being in baz's mind.

Snow looks sick; boney elbows, slightly-shaking hands, eyes too far back in his head, hair hugging his skull like it’s scared to grow any further away from him. I’ve never enjoyed looking at him like this.

He’s settling back into his living space, wrinkling the ironed sheets on his bed and unfolding his new uniform, balling it up and throwing it in a drawer. My only small comfort here is that he’s at least  _ acting  _ like himself, even if he looks like someone’s just bled him dry. 

And there it is: a spark of jealousy spreading across the overgrowth of kindling in my hollow chest. If anyone’s going to drain him, it’ll be me. 

I wonder if I look different after the summer; if my hair looks freshly cut, my back straighter, my movements calculated, my eyes tired. 

I wonder if he would notice if I did.

He runs a too-thin hand over his cropped hair and I hate it. In a perfect world, this moment would be different. He wouldn’t be sitting with his back to me, hunched over so I could see every notch in his spine, breathing the air around us so heavily like he’s not sure which breath will be his last and he wants to absorb as much as possible. He wouldn’t be completely silent; me anticipating what the first word he might say to me this year will be. In a perfect world, everything would be different.

He looks so different. 

I wonder how long it will be until I start to recognize him again.

As the year progresses, I’ll find it easier and easier to tear my eyes away from him while we’re eating. At the beginning of the year, however, I don’t have the willpower. During the summer, I use all my willpower just keeping my mouth shut, head down, hands folded, feelings buried. Soon, I’ll be myself again, but the definition of “soon” all hinges on how long it takes him to become himself again.

At least pointed stares won’t give me away. (I used to worry that they would, but I can’t be arsed anymore.)

Currently, he’s sitting across the room, Bunce across the table from him, talking loudly and gesturing emphatically. Wellbelove sits next to him, their shoulders knocking against each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I can’t even focus on that, though, because I’m watching him eat. It’s not like I’ve never seen him eat a scone before, but it always looks different at the beginning of the year. He’s ravenous. Desperate. But, trying not to let it show. (Honestly, he looks like me when I’m feeding.)

He doesn’t really care when crumbs drop to the table, or when butter runs down his fingers. (My mind forces me to imagine me licking the butter from his hand. I can’t say it’s a new thought for me.) Slowly, a smile spreads across his freckled face and only now can I look away. Only now do I let myself breathe.  _ He’s going to be fine.  _

_ Aren’t you, Snow? _

With the return of the hair and the weight, his joy comes back, too.

Tonight, when he comes back to our room, he’s grinning like an idiot and as he practically skips over to his bed, his hair is bouncing.

I know, realistically, that he’s probably like this because of Wellbelove, something she said or did or… I don’t let myself think about it.

Sometimes, I do. Sometimes, I sit and stare at the wall and imagine him with her just to torture myself. Her head on his shoulder, her hand in his, fingers in hair and lips on skin and his hand on my— This is where I have to stop. I never want to, but I make myself. It does me no good to imagine it.

So, tonight, I don’t allow myself to go there. Instead, I watch him flop onto his bed and spread his arms and  _ breathe _ and when he looks over to me, I put on a scowl and whip my head away.

“What?” he asks, but not like he’s looking for a fight and I scoff.

“You look ridiculous.”

Snow looks over to me and the smile has not wavered; he looks like the younger him I once loathed. I miss that. “Nothing you say could bring me down tonight,” he says like he’s swimming though honey, like I’m not even a dot on his radar.

I scoff again because my brain is buzzing and he’s already getting up, headed for the bathroom.

I watch him walk and let my lips upturn at his back. Right now, I don’t care if he hates me or disregards me or even if his joy is due to someone else who loves him. Right now, all that matters is that he looks like himself.

This is how I want to remember him.

One day, I won’t be able to check on him, to make sure he’s healthy and eating and joyous. So, here, I make a mental picture of him I want to keep with me always.

The  _ real  _ Simon Snow glows. I’ve seen it.


End file.
